God Save the Child
by Missing Triforce
Summary: John and Sherlock take a case involving murdered parents, a bangled will, and a mysterious girl. Something isn't right. Warning for OCs, SLASH, & LGBT issues. Fluff, crime, angst! Please R&R!
1. Chapter 1

**Hello! I feel like this could also be subtitled, "in which Missing Triforce finally discovered plot." It's my first murder mystery ever, so reviews are appreciated! Please? Especially if you see plotholes! =D**

**Disclaimer: I own almost nothing. Sherlock, John, and other characters & places & plots originally had tea with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and now with the delightful people of BBC. I do, however, own all original characters.**

**Warnings: SLASH MCSLASH SLASH SLASHEN SLASH: established relationship between Sherlock/John and hints of another...Also, mentioned violence against queers (which is NEVER okay, btw). Lastly, this contains slight references to my previous Sherlock fic "After." The main thing you need to know is Sherlock has returned from being "dead," and John and he are taking cases aimed at bringing down the mob.**

**Happy reading!**

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><p><em>God Save the Child: a BBC<em> Sherlock _Fanfic_

Chapter 1

_I was a heavy heart to carry_

_My beloved was weighed down_

_My arms around his neck_

_My fingers laced to crown._

-Florence and the Machine

"Bling, bling, bling!" Vrrrrrrrr.

I groaned. What did the universe want now?

Sherlock and I were in bed and I knew at once that the detective was diagonally sprawled across the whole mattress, including a pale arm across my chest and one leg mussed up with my own. I was flat on my back and cracked an eye open in response to the sound.

"Bling, bling, bling!" Vrrrrrrrrrr.

God, the mobile. Somebody was texting me at this God-awful hour and the stupid phone was shaking the whole side unit with its vibration. I closed my eyes and sighed: I had been hoping to make Sherlock sleep in this Saturday. The last case had involved lots of running and Sherlock not eating. Hoping against everything that he was still asleep, I gently unburied one of my arms from underneath Sherlock, rubbed my face up and down to wake up a bit, opened my eyelids (still rather unwillingly), and reached for the twice damned machine before it could make noise again.

**Text Message From: Greg Lestrade**

**Time: 7:02am 26/3/2017**

Have a case for you. 3 patches. Clean-cut case except for unclear motive. -LG

I sighed again. We had just caught a master forger on Friday.

**Text Message from: Greg Lestrade**

**Time: 7:03am 26/3/2017**

Double homicide and two disappearances. Son apparently murdered both his parents. Wake up Sherlock and tell him. -LG

I began to nudge Sherlock awake. "Sherlock, wake up. Lestrade wants you."

Sherlock's response was to groan loudly (guess the phone had woken him) and roll part way on top of me, making his body cross the bed in the other direction. With effort, he opened his eyes and took the phone from the my hands. As he scrolled through the messages, he muttered, "What does that dreadful man want now?" I just breathed, comforted by the half-weight of Sherlock's cool chest on top of mine. I could feel my eyelids flutter and let them stay there: sleep...

I heard the soft ca-thunk of the phone going back to the side unit. Sherlock shifted downwards so to lay his head on my chest. Almost automatically, I threaded my fingers in his curls. One hand meandered to the top of his head and the other slowly twirling with the small ringlets at the nape of his neck, keeping him to me. Let's just lay here forever...

After a few minutes, however, the phone blinged. Sherlock propped himself up to answer it, but I refused to relinquish hold of his head. Mine. Sherlock texted something back and put the phone down again. "We have to be in Southampton by nine-thirty."

"Why?" I groaned. "Can't Lestrade use his own brain for once?" I said that but opened my eyes in determination to get awake. Sherlock chuckled, a deep rumble in down his chest. He was _so_ like a cat.

"You'll like this one. No mob. Just a domestic."

"Oh shut mmffph-" Sherlock had stopped any further speech by leaning down and pressing a pleasant kiss. I used my hands on his head to make him stay there. Compensation.

Sherlock broke away after a moment and maneuvered so to loom over me, surveying me with his sharp eyes. They were grey right now, but if I turned my head a bit I could see the flecks of green, blue, or even gold. I stared up at him, feeling a crooked kind of smile steel over my face.

"What are you thinking?" I asked.

The skin around Sherlock's eyes tightened for a moment and his eyes flicked about more rapidly. "That I love you," he leaned down and nipped my neck before climbing swiftly out of bed. "Come along, John."

The weather was gloomy out so Sherlock wore his full coat-and-scarf regalia and I had on a jumper and jacket. Most of the train ride to Southhampton was spent with Lestrade filling us in the details of the case via speakerphone. We could hear the police in the background, milling about. Anderson kept coming up with theories, much to Sherlock's displeasure.

"The Devonforts are an old Southampton family so they have all the titles and nice house to go with that. The house itself, you'll see, is a bit away from the city and next to the River Itchen. Anyway, the family consisted of William Devonfort, his wife Abigail Devonfort, his twenty-two year old son James, and his seven year old daughter Alice. James was supposed to get all the money after his father died, but the rumors were not all happy in that camp. William and Abigail were threatening to disinherit him and James thought they did."

"Why would they?" Sherlock asked.

"James hung out with a wild lot: drugs, sex with pretty girls, drink. A footballer. Bringing shame to the family and all that sod. The parents wanted him to shape up."

"He's got a criminal record too. Stealing," quipped Anderson.

"Not all thieves become murders, Anderson," said Sherlock sharply.

"Yeah, but he did have a history of violence and bullying at school," said Lestrade. "Not a very nice bloke."

A pause ensued on the other end. Sherlock looked confused and seemed to listen intensely. "Stop whispering. You're on speaker phone. Out with it."

Surprisingly, Donovan's voice came on. "I would like to say that you freaks had better be careful with this one. He mostly beat up queers." I felt my eyes widen a bit in surprise at the concern, but then I smiled a little. She had changed a great deal since we'd first met, I suppose.

Lestrade seemed to have wrestled the mobile away from his sergeant. "Yeah well. They know what they're doing, don't they? Anyway, last night the kid and his friend..." There was a pause as if Lestrade was checking his notes "Scott came to stay from uni for the Easter holiday. The maid was just going to bed when they came, around midnight. She heard some drunken shouts from James and an argument start, but went to sleep all the same-took sleeping pills. She's addicted to the stuff and has been for years. In the morning she wakes up, can't find anybody about, and then finds the bodies. She checks for Alice, but she can't find her anywhere. No body. No sign of James or Scott. We've left everything for you to have a look at."

"When did the police arrive?"

"About when I called you: seven."

"Anything taken from the house?"

"Some food. We guess that James exited through the kitchen sidedoor. His prints are leading away from there to the road."

Sherlock steepled his pale fingers in thought. His eyes looked likely to burn holes in the empty air they were staring at. Then he said quietly, "But why call me? This seems like an open and shut domestic."

"The funny thing is the kid _thought_ his parents had changed the will. Why kill them when if alive they could possibly change it back? Plus in reality they hadn't changed anything."

Sherlock shrugged. "There could be a multitude of reasons: idiocy, drunkenness, revenge."

"Listen, Sherlock...Something just doesn't seem _right_ about this case. I want you here to check it out."

"Don't look now, Greg, but you're getting old. Talking about _feelings_."

There was a pause. "Your brother says hello."

I laughed as Sherlock started in surprise, his smug expression (all that authority and deference they were giving him was just feeding his already large ego) wobbled a bit before being replaced by a smirk. "Fine. I'm already coming."

"Good man," said Lestrade. And then the phone went silent.

"Odd how things change over the years," I said.

Sherlock leaned back in his train seat, still in a thinking pose. "Anderson's still an idiot."

I chuckled and leaned back into my own plump train seat. Thinking back to the case, my face drew down into a frown. "Do you think he killed them and ran away with his friend and sister?"

Sherlock's eyes slid to me. "Mustn't theorize before we have all the facts," he said. "And why kill your parents but not your sister? Surely if you have the motive to kill your own caretakers you'd also kill your sibling who would stand to inherit all."

I shrugged, but then shivered. Crime. Murder. Hadn't there been enough? Why did people do this to each other? I looked down at my hands, callused and wrinkled from time and wear. To protect others in my case. To protect the man sitting across from me. Why the Devonforts? As I stared at the city flying by, I wondered what scarlet thread we'd have to unravel this time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello! Many thanks to NicolieTheFace for reviewing! Here's that chapter you wanted. :D**

**Please, please, please review! Just a head's up, John kind of turns into a random transparent eyeball in the next few chapters. Meaning, he focuses on reporting what Sherlock does mostly and poetizing/fluff is to a minimum. Plus, really important character intro in this chapter!**

**Lastly, a note on characters. If Donovan, Sherlock, or John or anybody really seem a little OOC, it's because I'm trying to project their character growth in the show. Sherlock is less childish/has more people skills, Donovan gets over herself, and John becomes calmer. Sherlock-John have more connection and team work skillz as in Sherlock doesn't go off on his own unless he wants an angry Watson to attack him later. Anyway, that's what I was aiming for.**

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><p>Chapter 2<p>

_I was a heavy heart to carry_

_My feet dragged across the ground_

_And he took me to the river_

_Where he slowly let me drown_

-Florence and the Machine

We arrived at Southhampton station and were driven to the house by police car (Sherlock made a disgusted face at this, but we wanted to get there quickly). The house was a huge brick affair with white columns to support a small roof over the doorstep. It was two stories with windows all around. Well, plenty to choose from then if anyone wanted to get in or out that way. Police meandered about and Sherlock's eyes quickly scanned the area with their usual grey laser-focus, a questioning look on his face. We got out of the car and walked to the door where Donovan let us in with a friendly "There you are, freaks. Have fun."

Sherlock smirked and strode through the door. I took a step on the threshold and slipped on unsteady ground. "W-Whoa!"

"Careful!" Sherlock shouted, grabbing my arm to keep me from connecting with the floor. I steadied myself. What the? Since when was I clumsy? I looked at the floor. Three pairs of old, unused shoes were lined up in a row by the wall. The floor was made of wood, but mostly covered by a carpet. A very loose carpet. "Are you alright, John?" He was looking at me piercingly, concerned. Suddenly all focus from the case was torn, all the intensity of his pale face and dark curls on me. My mouth went dry.

"I'm fine," I said. "Just slipped on the carpet." Sherlock looked at me a second longer before releasing me and continuing down the hallway. Lestrade came to meet us with dark circles under his eyes and an harassed expression on his face-someone had been annoying him.

With a nod to each of us, "Glad you two could make it. I've kept the team back since we got here, but you've got to hurry. This way."

We followed through the maze of hallways and rooms to what looked like a library. From the rooms we'd passed these people were rich and seemed to really like carpets. The floor was wood, but loose carpets were in every room it seemed. Persian rugs on the floor and chandeliers or ornate lamps from the ceiling. The library itself looked like it had just come out of Victoria. Golden brown woodwork, dark piano on one side, an ornate fireplace, dusty and modern books side by side, large carpet covering the floor. Oh, and the two bloody bodies on the ground.

It was a bit cramped.

Come to think of it, the whole house felt cramped, like the walls were too close and bearing down on you. I was supremely glad that I wasn't claustrophobic.

Lestrade handed us some plastic gloves. "I'll need anything you got." Sherlock went over the bodies. Both were faced downwards at awkward angles so they'd fallen. One was a blonde man, about fifty with square shoulders, a strict, almost military haircut, and a suit. He had a round face though, which made it seem like he had been a man constantly warring between yelling at people and joking with them. The lady seemed about his age, but had much darker hair, so brown it was almost black. Bit like Sherlock's color in fact. It waved down past the soft angles of her face to her shoulders. Shiny wedding rings were on both their left fingers. A handsome and happy couple it seemed. Sherlock was hovering over them, touching their clothes, hair, examining their faces. He abruptly stood up and walked to the piano, wiping his finger across the keys.

"John, cause of death please."

As I bent over them Sherlock walked around the room, staring at the paneled bookcases that lined the walls. Lestrade crossed his arms over his chest, ready for anything. The COD was rather obvious. Blood was slowly caking their hair on the back of their heads. "Serious head trauma from behind, the blow shattering their skulls and slicing their brains. That man must be strong. Time of death would be between midnight and two."

"The murder weapon was a long, thin metal stick." His eyes flicked to Lestrade before returning to the bookcase in front of him. "But you already knew that, Lestrade."

"Yeah, a poker from the fireplace. It had a whole lot of blood all over it and James's fingerprints. Forensics took it unfortunately. It was in its holder originally." He pointed, but Sherlock didn't move. He was tapping the side panels that separated the bookcase.

"They were arguing. Quite a violently by the look of it. There's a bit of broken glass and a slight white wine stain on the other side of the piano. I'd check the closest rubbish bin. I also need somebody to quarantine the area that leads from that window to the river. Try to go against your nature and not mess up the footprints."

"Why that window?" I asked.

"There's a smudge of rubber on the sill from a trainer. So we know it was one of the boys. But what I am most interested in currently is what's behind this bookcase." he stepped back and looked it up top to bottom. "John, Lestrade, I need you here."

"But there's nothing behind the bookcase. It's a wall," I said as I moved to his side.

"No, there's a closet. The dimensions of this room are all wrong. These brass connectors are not decoration. They're hinges. Browning, John."

I had stuffed the gun in the back of my jeans for the case. I took it on all the cases now. As I pulled it out, I noticed that the small panels that separated the bookcase stacks all had seemingly decorative strips of brass connecting them. This one didn't look any different. "Everyone ready? I'm going to open the door," Sherlock said. Lestrade and I took a breath. Sherlock pulled on one of the middle shelves.

It pulled out to reveal a closet full of rain coats and wellies, but standing in the back behind everything were a pair of small, pale, trembling calves underneath what must have been a knee-length nightgown.

"Alice," Sherlock breathed. His eyes flicked to me and back at the girl. He then went over to examine the window. I understood.

I put away my gun and crouched down. Lestrade was gaping like a fish. "What the hell-"

"Alice," I cut in gently. "It's alright. The police are here. We are not going to hurt you. Please come out." A little pale hand slithered out from the between the coats. It parted them just enough where only half of a trembling face was visible. I stiffened momentarily. Her eye. It was Sherlock's. The same grey as a fogged glass with tints of blue-green gold to match the shifting light.

This case just got a lot more personal.

"You're alright now. You'll be safe with us," I said, trying to look as non-threatening as possible. I held out my arms to her. Lestrade's head kept flopping between me and the girl.

Tears started forming as the girl nodded. She then burst out of the closet and ran straight into me, wrapping her arms around me like a vise. I gave a little "ooff" of surprise. "There, there," I said, trying to sound comforting. "It's alright. You're fine."

All I could feel was that my shoulder was getting very wet. Putting my arm under her, I lifted her up so to carry her, making sure to turn so she wasn't able to see her dead parents. Her legs tightened around my waist with surprising strength. I used my free arm to rub circles in her back, mussing up the blue fabric of her nightie. With us this close, I could feel her heart and breath, both of which seemed normal if overly excited at the present moment.

Lestrade seemed to snap back to reality. "I'll go tell the team," he said weakly before leaving the room. I turned a bit so to see Sherlock. He was looking at us strangely, his head cocked in confusion and his eyes scanning. His hands were his coat pockets and for one rare moment he seemed to be just standing there.

"What?" I asked.

"She has your hair," he said.

"Pardon?" I looked at him quizzically. I guess her hair was blonde like mine. It had been cut boyishly too, just below her ears.

"Not important. Just..." He crossed the room to me and held a hand up to my face. He put his hands under my chin and turned my head this way and that. He pulled on a lock of my hair and examined it.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

At that moment Lestrade was back. "Right. So you found the girl, now what else you got?"

"Do you have the rubbish bin?" Sherlock said, letting go of my hair. I glared at him suspiciously. We usually didn't do anything romantic during a case, not that pulling my hair was romantic. Touching usually distracted Sherlock from thinking. So why was my hair of scientific importance?

Lestrade handed Sherlock the rubbish bin. "Aha," he said, pulling out a shattered wine glass. "Very neat people, the Devonforts. Cleaned up their messes. That library was spotless except for a few dog hairs. They have a dog too. That is a curious thing."

"What's a curious thing? There's been no noise about a dog."

"That's the curious thing. Have a dog, train it to guard, but then somebody kills someone and the dog doesn't do a thing. So the dog knew the killer quite closely."

"Yeah so? It could still be James," Lestrade said.

"Or it could not be James and be somebody entirely different, but somebody familiar with the house. Years familiar I'd say."

"How years familiar?" I asked.

"Had to know the maid took sleeping pills and be let into the house while the Devonforts were arguing-the tracks from the window are mainly heading away from the house so nobody new snuck in through there. Anyway, James's suitcase for the holiday. Where is it?"

Still holding Alice, we walked to a dining room. Another carpet on the floor and bright chandelier over a long ebony table. Lestrade pointed to a very out of place bag on the floor, a bright blue sports one. Sherlock unzipped it and rummaged around. "Excellent," he smiled. "No phone."

"He must have taken it with him," I said. Alice had stopped crying, but was still gripping me like I was the anchor to her earth. I felt them tighten even more for a second but then release.

Sherlock smiled at me. "Exactly. Stupid footballer boy is in trouble with his family, what does he do? He's distracted, agitated, not thinking straight, so he is stripped down to his essentials. He calls his friends. Takes his mobile with him so they can contact him. In James's case he also takes the open wine bottle from the library."

"Why the bottle?"

"He's a drinker. His father was a great drinker from the scratches on the pocket watch currently stuffed in his pocket. Also liked to keep up pretenses so thus the suit. Trying to be the formal, strong man of the house, but failing. So he turned to drink. Loves his wife, though: I'll give him that. Didn't lay a finger on her. But has regrets concerning her too."

"Such as?"

"His ring is meticulously clean: almost as if to compensate for something. Hers, by contrast, is clean, but not _that_ clean. So she's happy, but not as much. Also her clothes are fairly expensive, but no Frenchwoman would wear such a style and they're not her color. She's a faithful, steady wife so her husband bought them for her. Same goes for the rest of her jewelry-the diamond earrings, the necklace chain etc. He's making up for something in addition to wanting to impress people with her. I suggest something about children."

"What?"

"Notice the age range. James is twenty-two. Alice is seven. Abigail wanted another child, but couldn't get it. Not from William anyway. She can carry children-the evidence of that is clinging to John and in the family photographs in one of these room's mantlepieces. She was content for a while without one-she loves her husband remember-but suddenly wanted a baby. Most likely due to her son's failures I'd say. Abigail was a bit proud like that. Anyway, Alice is her child but not William's. I'd say in vitro with anonymous sperm donor? William knew about it, of course, but was a bit proud too and there's his image. So they pretended Alice was his."

Lestrade and I were speechless for a moment. Sherlock deducing never got old. I swallowed. "How'd you know about the French?"

"The French..." he paused a little and licked his lips, a bit nervously. "Abigail is related to me very distantly. My maternal grandmother was French. Abigail is the descendent of my grandmother's aunt." He made a disgusted face and looked a bit distant. "When I was very young, Mummy made Mycroft and I memorize the family tree. She still tests us on it occasionally. There was a bit of an uproar on the French side when Abigail married William."

I had an idea. "So that's why Alice has your eyes."

Lestrade and Sherlock looked at me with surprise scrolled on their faces. "If she does then, yes. But not why-we should examine the footprints from the window." Sherlock turned away and made for the door. "Since you're otherwise occupied, John, Lestrade and I will go. You can stay here with my young relation." I watched him go with Lestrade muttering into the police radio about finding out the real father. But I was thinking about that little pause in Sherlock's statement, that little tiny breath: was he hiding something from me? What could he possibly...

"I suppose you might have met Sherlock before and he did something awful to you?" I asked the girl jokingly. But then I realized she was asleep, her face buried under my neck. Her breathing was deep and slow too-very asleep then. Poor child.

I sighed and sat down on one of the chairs. A bit stiff. Strange, this girl was chest deep in this business and my shirt was practically drowning in her tears, but not a single sound from her. Was she mute? I rocked her a bit back and forth. It's been a long while since I've held a child. It was nice, comforting in its own way. And I felt a curious connection this young girl, like I'd known her for a while and not met for the first time today. She seemed familiar, probably just because she had Sherlock's color irises, the most phantasmic color in the whole world that I'd thought, before today, I would never find anywhere else. Her face was also like Sherlock's a bit, much rounder, softer in childhood, but the hint of angle and high cheekbones was there.

After about twenty minutes, Sherlock stepped back into the room.

"Hey. What did you find outside?"

"Two sets of footprints-Scott's and James's as I'd thought-leading to the River Itchen, which conveniently flows right in their backyard. Only James's leading back. What has been identified as Scott's uni football jacket was found caught on a bush in the water."

I closed my eyes. "God, he was drowned."

"Apparently."

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><p><strong>dun, dun, DUN!<strong>

**Please review!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello! =D Here's chapter 3! THANKS SO MUCH to itsravensfault and Sepei for reviewing! I'm really glad you guys like it. **

**Question: would anyone be interested in an author's reference guide? Just a chapter at the end where I go chapter by chapter and explain what I was trying to do/what I'm referencing from fanon, canon, real life, or otherwise.**

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><p>Chapter 3<p>

_Who is the betrayer?_

_Who's the killer in the crowd?_

_The one who creeps in corridors_

_And doesn't make a sound_

-Florence and the Machine

"Lestrade is trying to track the GPS on James's phone. In the meantime, I want to interview the maid. Come with me and bring Alice."

"Alright."

I followed Sherlock again through the house, leading to the kitchen where a distressed maid sat. She was in her uniform and waving a handkerchief about distractedly at the police. Her greying reddish brown hair was up in a bun and an oversized, black dog was sitting her her lap, looking sullen. She looked at us warily, but sprang up suddenly when she saw Alice, forcing the dog to get off, look at us mournfully, and leave the room. "Alice, _mon amie_! What has happened? Are you well? Oh! She is asleep!" As she had spoken, she had gotten closer, her hands fluttering uselessly over Alice's body. She stepped back and looked me up and down. "She must like you, sir. She doesn't take well to just anyone."

I tried to shrug but it was difficult under the girl, out of the corner of my eye I saw Sherlock smile a bit before it was replaced by his usual expression of blank authority. "O! But you must sit down! Alice is heavy!" She gestured to the chair she had just vacated. Sherlock changed his face again as I sat, adopting a suave, smooth expression before the maid turned to him. "Do you have questions, sir policeman?"

"Yes, miss, I was wondering if you could tell my partner and I about Scott and James. What was their relationship?" Out of nowhere, Sherlock pulled up a chair for her.

The maid seemed much happier with the recovery of Alice, but still very anguished. "Clémence please. And oh! Your partner with him? So lucky! You two will have many beautiful babies, if you want babies that is." I could feel myself blush profusely, but the maid just waved her hand some more while sitting down in the chair Sherlock had proffered.

Sherlock smiled, a twinkle in his eyes. "Yes, indeed."

"But the point," Clémence's face and eyes hardened more, and she wiped her eyes. "I've watched James grow into such an awful man. All he seems to do is play excellent football and drink and fool with girls. When he was young, he was very physical, always pushing and pulling and hitting. Took him ages to stop. But his father finally paid attention and put a firm hand down. Scott has been James's friend since they were small. Always running around the house and knocking over things. Scott was so cute with such pretty eyes. And pretty manners to go with it. I didn't punish them more than once because of those pretty eyes." She shrugged sadly. "But I was young."

"What made his father finally make the boys stop their behavior?"

Clémence's eyes moved back and forth uneasily, her manner suddenly more quiet and grave. "James is not a killer," she whispered. "I don't give a fig about him. His parents, Jesus take their souls, were kind, but also wrapped in their social world. They weren't here enough for him. But they gave him morals."

"I believe in innocent until proven guilty, Miss Clémence," assured Sherlock.

She looked about once more and then: "He almost killed someone. Quite a while ago. It put the poor child in the hospital for quite a while too, but he was alive. Scott was there and, though he didn't beat up the other boy, he didn't stop it either. William and Abigail had it hushed up, but I don't care about reputation. They are dead and somebody killed them and you're going to find that someone won't you, sir?"

Sherlock looked back at her steadily, his real personality shinning through a little. "Yes," he said.

The woman blushed and nodded. "I don't think James is a killer. He was very depressed and sad after the last incident. He hasn't beaten up anybody since that I know of."

"Thank goodness for that," I said quietly.

Clémence looked back at me. "Do you want me to take Alice, sir?" Her gaze moved to Sherlock. "Or will the police take her?"

"I don't know actually." Sherlock's eyes and mine met almost on instinct and I felt the same emotion running between us, linking my blue-brown to his current green: worry, concern, unsettlement.

"One last question before we go to Detective Inspector Lestrade," said Sherlock, turning back to her. "Did Mr. or Mrs. Devonfort talk of meeting anyone new recently, or was anyone unfamiliar been around the house in the past week or two?"

Clémence shook her head. "Nobody I didn't already know was mentioned or came by." Sherlock nodded.

We rose to go and quickly found a weary Lestrade who was filling out paperwork on a folding table outside. "We got permission for the GPS on James's phone, Sherlock, and James's location," he said, looking up at us. "Anytime you want to go."

"One thing first," the detective said. "What happens to Alice?"

Lestrade seemed surprised by the question. "Well, she goes into state custody, I expect, unless she's needed for the case. Or never lets go of Dr. Watson." He chuckled at his own joke.

"I think she is stuck to him!" declared Clémence. "I've never seen her like this in all my years."

"Let's try and get her into the Child Services in any case. We also need to check to see if the sperm donor had any special requests," said Lestrade. "Take her off him will you? We've got a killer to catch."

Clémence glared at Lestrade for a second but then her hands were on Alice, gently trying to get her off. "Come, _mon amie_. Wake up and say goodbye to Dr. Watson."

Sherlock said suddenly, "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

But it was too late. I felt Alice's eyes snap open as Clémence gave her a harder tug. Her small head shot up and she swung one of her arms around to almost hit her caretaker who had leaned back at just the right moment. Her legs and other arm, which were very relaxed before now, were gripping me like a bloody python. She twisted around to glare daggers at Lestrade and Clémence, her eyes on fire just as Sherlock's were when he was angry. Underneath all the facade of meanness though, I could still feel her shaking.

"As I was saying," Sherlock continued. "Any attempt to separate Alice and John is going to fail disastrously. And possibly make John suffocate."

"Thanks Sherlock," I retorted. "Saying something earlier would have been nice."

Alice's fiery gaze focused on Sherlock, shifting into something of approval and understanding. Her body relaxed, settling more comfortably on me, but still turned around and watching him. Her forehead was tucked into my neck, her eyes just peeking out from under the small curtain of blonde hair. It was scary how much the look resembled Sherlock's. God, was she _analyzing_ him? Her irises seemed to be taking in every detail.

"If you could, however, transfer to holding John's hand or something of that nature I would be most obliged," Sherlock said. "I need him to be able to help me at a moment's notice."

Alice smiled at him and nodded. She gave my neck a kiss and I put her down. She transferred her grip to my hand.

"Sherlock, we can't take her after a potential killer," I said. I said "potential" lightly. Everything seemed to point to James despite Lestrade's and Clémence's doubts.

"We can and we will. Clémence, please pack Alice some sandwiches and water. Lestrade, take us to James."

The startled maid just gaped and scurried back to the kitchen. Lestrade started, "Sherlock-"

"Do you want us on this case or not? Where I go, John goes. Where John goes, Alice goes. Separate any of the pairs and we'll have panic."

Lestrade shook his head. "Fine. But if anything happens to her, I'm holding you two responsible. And you are not to go off on your own. She has to stay with the police."

Sherlock gave Alice a smile and a wink. Her smile broadened and she looked up at me. Despite myself, I smiled back. Inwardly, I couldn't believe we were taking the child on the investigation. She had just seen a crime scene, possibly even the murder if she was in the room with her parents. Sherlock must have another good reason for this: being this considerate was unlike him. I didn't want to see Alice go either and I refused to leave Sherlock to face a killer alone (whenever I wasn't around he kept getting into scraps), but still...What was I thinking?

After Clémence gave us a bag full of sandwiches, we got into another police car (Sherlock's lips twitched in annoyance) and drove into town. Lestrade was driving with Donovan next to him. She had raised an eyebrow at Alice, but had said nothing. With my free hand I took out a sandwich and offered one to her. "Are you hungry, Alice?"

She bounced a little in her seat and took the sandwich. She tried to stuff the whole thing in her mouth. "Don't choke," I laughed. "No one's going to take it away from you." She tried to smile with her mouth full of sandwich.

"Keep your mouth closed when you chew, _mon amie_," Sherlock said suddenly. "And make sure to drink something. You've been in that closet for ages."

She closed her mouth and began to eat more normally. "What was that about the closet?" I asked. Was this what Sherlock was keeping hidden?

Sherlock tore his gaze from the window to address the Inspector. "She's got dried blood on her left arm, underneath her sleeve. Clémence had put her to bed earlier as evidence by the nightie. She must have heard the commotion and came downstairs to find the crime scene. She realized the situation, did what any child would do and touched it, and then hid. You'll find some bloodstains on those coats, Lestrade: she wiped herself clean best she could. Hours later, we find her."

"You realize she might have seen the killer," Lestrade said.

"Yes, which is another reason why she must stay with us. She needs protection and John, if I do say so myself, is excellent at that."

Alice, by this time, had finished two sandwiches and drunk most of one water bottle. She leaned against my arm contentedly and nodded at Sherlock's suggestion.

"But she's mute," I pointed out. "Or at least not talking. Are you holding out on us, Alice?"

Her face quirked into a smile and she nodded again before closing her eyes as if to sleep more. Sherlock gave a wry smile before turning back to the window.

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><p><strong>Please review and tell me what you think! Your opinion matters to me greatly!<strong>


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello lovelies! Here's Chapter 4! As usual, please review. For this chapter especially if you know what John hints at or what Sherlock is hiding...It'll help me gauge how much a "mystery" this is. Thank you very much!**

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><p>Chapter 4<p>

_I'm so heavy, heavy_

_heavy in your arms_

-Florence and the Machine

The GPS led us as far as a two story flat in the center of Southampton. When we knocked on the door, Alice was still clutching my hand, Sherlock was looking bemused, and Lestrade's face was drawn into determination. The door opened a crack with the chain securing it. I could see a sliver of a female face-brown curly hair, tan, round features and eyes a mellow blue. The jaw was clenched and eyebrows dipping dangerously downward into a scowl.

"Who are you and what do you want?" she spat in an American accent.

"Mina Pinto?" Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Yeah."

"Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. We want to search your flat in a connection with a case concerning James Devonfort," said Lestrade, flashing his ID at her.

The lady visibly paled, but stood her ground. "Do you have a warrant, Detective Inspector? I don't know anybody by the name of Devonfort."

Lestrade glared at her. "Miss, don't lie to the British police. Here's your warrant. Please let us in."

The girl glared back and shut the door before opening it wide again. "Go ahead then. See if I care."

Lestrade muttered a 'thank you' before going in, followed by Sherlock who immediately started scanning the room-everything seemed a shade of off-white from the carpet to the tile in the kitchen that was connected to the hallway. Signs of life like soda on the counter, stacks of papers, piles of heavy textbooks, a bookcase stuffed with battered paperbacks, a telly atop a scratched wood unit, and much-used sofa littered the place. Sherlock's eyes sparkled and his curls were all in a disarray. I looked down at Alice, wanting to see her response to Lestrade's tactics. She looked about questioningly before settling her gaze on the owner of the flat. "Who's the kid?" Mina asked, seemingly intrigued by her presence.

"She's James's sister Alice. Their parents were killed today," I replied. If Mina was his friend, she knew something about this James. Perhaps I could convince her to tell it. She paled further at my comment and her eyes widened.

"So you're taking her on police investigations?" she said disbelievingly.

I chuckled. "She won't let go of me actually."

"Poor baby," Mina murmured as she crouched down to Alice's height. Their eyes locked, transfixed on each other. Again Alice adopted Sherlock's stare-that ability to just _see through_ people, know all of them in a single glance. But this look was kinder, gentler as if she could see all, but would care for it. In response, the woman seemed to welcome the analysis, rather than fidget uncomfortably like people under Sherlock's scrutiny. Unexpectedly, Alice reached out the hand that wasn't gripping my own. She softly placed it on the back of Mina's head and brought their foreheads together. Alice closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Mina gasped and seemed hypnotized in place. Alice released her and Mina staggered away, still staring at the child. Alice smiled at her shyly before maneuvering to hide behind me.

My mouth was hanging open and I licked my lips unconsciously to hide my surprise. "What did you do, Alice?"

She glanced at me with a flash of brief annoyance before looking back at Mina, the smile playing on her lips. Mina gulped and recovered herself, running a hand through her hair. "Well," she said as she straightened up and fixed her top: a purple tank top thing. "You wanted to know about James. Scott and him and I study physics together at uni. We're..." She finally tore her gaze off Alice. "friends, Mr...?"

"Watson. I'm Dr. Watson."

"Right," she said, nodding. The color was slowly coming back to her cheeks. "Where I come from, when a friend's in trouble you help them. So that's why when James-"

"JOHN!" came Sherlock's yell from somewhere in the flat. Instinct kicked in. I ran towards the shout and Alice followed, her hand still caught in mine. We found him with Lestrade upstairs in front of closed door, looking perfectly alright and a little smug. "There you are."

"Sherlock! I thought you were in trouble!" I said.

"Always the most effective way of getting you fastest," he smiled. He looked down at Alice. "Now,_ mon amie_, I need you to close your eyes and hide as much as you can behind John. We're going to see your half-brother now, but we don't know the exact state he's in."

"You found him," I huffed, still annoyed.

"Lestrade did actually. Only locked door was a bit obvious. I was looking for information about Mina, but it seems you and Alice did that quite effectively. She didn't know James's situation when she took him in last night. Just thought he was drunk again. They're party buddies at uni and met their first year. Extremely loyal and fancies him a bit. They've been lovers. He likes her at least subconsciously because she reminds him of his mother, who was probably the more affectionate one in the family."

"How could you possibly know that?" I couldn't help saying.

Sherlock answered very quickly. "You saw, but didn't observe. Her physical appearance is similar and she's obviously taken care of him before, last night's drunk visit being routine. Probably cleaned him up too, judging by the soiled state of her bathroom down the hall. With the kind of relationship they have, I'd say Abigail was fonder of her son than William was: he _trusts_ Mina to take care of him and doesn't seem to want to dominate or control her. An American like Mina wouldn't stand for it. As for lovers, she's also got a bottle of cheap men's cologne in the bathroom, which is the same scent emitting from this door quite obnoxiously. Also two toothbrushes are ready for use, and she doesn't have a flatmate. One hasn't been used for a while so lover but not current. I looked at pictures near her bed and overheard your conversation for the rest. Satisfied?"

I grinned.

"Yeah, now that the flirting's over, we've got James nice and panicked on the other side of this door so let's open it up," said Lestrade, who was rolling his eyes.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes a little at Lestrade for interrupting the moment. "Ready Alice? Browning, John." Lestrade also took out his own gun. Sherlock backed up and in one swift movement kicked the locked door open.

"Oi! Scotland Yard!" Lestrade shouted into the darkness of the room "We're armed! Come out slowly with your hands up!"

"_I didn't do it, I swear!"_ came the reply.

Out of the room stepped a blubbering James Davenfort, his hands above his head and holding a mostly empty wine bottle.

"Are you sure about that, James?" came Mina's voice. She came up the stairs slowly, her eyes wide in disbelief. She was holding a sport's jacket with blood caked down one sleeve.

We were in the temporary holding cell at the police station trying to understand James Davenfort. He has the usual muscular frame of a footballer and a very round face, almost like somebody had squashed it slightly. His hair was a smooth dark blonde and his grey eyes keep twitching nervously, bouncing from each of our faces to corners of the room to the table he sat at. They were more metallic than Alice's, like concrete or steel. He also kept twiddling his thumbs and crossing and uncrossing his feet under the table.

This was going to be a long interview for him.

Lestrade was sitting across from the boy on the desk, his anger that seemed to have built up during the day dissipating slowly. Compassion, I suppose. I wasn't sure what to make of him with his history of violence and hate. He was a kid, but also a kid who'd been at the very least involved in the killing of his parents and drowning his best friend. Alice didn't seem to know what to make of him either. She was scrutinizing her half-brother minutely and holding my hand, but much more lightly than before (good because I was losing circulation in it by this time).

Sherlock refused to talk to anyone but was pacing back and forth in as much space as the small room afforded.

"I have to tell ya, I don't remember anything of last night," James said again.

"What's the last thing you _do_ remember," Sherlock snapped suddenly.

James looked at him for a moment. "We-me and Scott-were at the club and dancing...Mina wasn't there. You can't hurt her, sir."

"We got it covered, James. Mina didn't know about any of this so she'll be alright," said Lestrade. The Inspector ran his fingers through his hair and looked far away as James continued his story.

"Yeah. Me and Scott be dancing and somebody decides to have some more drinks." He shifted uncomfortably, remembering. "We had a few more and...last thing I remember was getting into the cab for home and Scott saying something about leaving his mobile in the club. I blacked out."

"Were you feeling angry at your parents about the will?" I interjected.

"Oh yeah. You can't take a thing like that lying down. But I wasn't intending to kill'em. Honest!" James suddenly looked at me earnestly.

"Tell me about your and Scott's relationship," said Sherlock sharply.

We were all surprised at the question for a beat. Why was Sherlock asking about a dead boy? But then James's protests became even louder. "I would never kill 'im. He's my best mate. Since primary school we've been together. We've always got each other's backs. We used to run around the house and escape Clémence through all the old secret passages. There's tons in that old house that nobody but us knew about."

Sherlock waved a hand at him impatiently. "Had Scott changed at all? Did you notice anything strange?"

James scratched his head. "No. We're just mates. And he wasn't afraid of any water. Scott can swim real well. Nobody would be able to drown him."

"They could if he was drunk and held down with enough force," I said darkly.

Shoulders suddenly tense, Lestrade's eyes flicked to me but then looked back at James. Sherlock was pacing even faster now frustrated. "No, no, no. James," he stopped pacing and put his hands on the table. He leaned towards the boy, putting his full force onto the footballer, "was there anything you noticed about Scott over the years? Any unexplainable behavior? You've been friends with the man since you were young. Surely you must have noticed _something_."

James visibly pulled away from Sherlock. "Not anything worth a mention. He got all quiet a couple years ago when-when-"

"You almost killed the queer boy," Sherlock finished smugly.

"Y-yes," James said, his face hardened. "But that's got nothing to do with anything. That's the past. I didn't kill Scott or my Mum or my Dad. You're barking up the wrong tree."

Alice's eyes widened a bit as she stepped behind me. I saw Sherlock's eyes flicked from her to James and back before turning to me. "John, you may want to take her out of here," he said. He straightened away from James and resumed pacing.

"She's not strictly supposed to be here in the first place," Lestrade added.

James looked to him. "Then why is she? Are you turning her against me?" he said heatedly, his thumbs suddenly still and color in his cheeks. "She's my sister!"

Alice trembled. Lestrade said, "Technically, she's your half-sister. John."

Unconsciously, I looked at Sherlock and he gave me a sympathetic smile. He didn't really need me for interviewing a witness with Lestrade there. Any demands Sherlock had Lestrade could translate. He _would_ tell me later what had happened even if I had to force him. I could feel the wall building like he's blocking me out; read it in the stiffness of his face, the tensing of his stomach muscles, the slightest shallowness of his breath. As we exited, I could hear James give a "What the bloody hell are you talking about?"

I waited right outside the door for Sherlock. There was a chair, and as I sat down in it, Alice climbed up onto my lap. She let go of my hand in favor of wrapping her arms around my neck and resting her head against me. I circled my arms around her.

"Funny day, you're having," I told her. "Parents gone. Half-brother suspected. Lost your voice. All the while you're in a nightie and I'm missing out on the case." I could feel her smile even though I couldn't see it. "And you've decided you like me, it seems. And I get the feeling you're not at all surprised by any of this." She shook her head. She lifted herself up a little and pecked my neck before settling down to her previous position. I chuckled a little. "You're a bit strange, but physically you're fine." I could feel her smiling again.

It _was_ strange though. Despite not knowing her until this morning (late this morning), I felt a connection to her. Almost like when I first met Sherlock: an echo of that immediate bond. That immediate need to protect, to get to know, to investigate, to trust. And that weird thing with Mina and just now with James and her immediate attachment to me. Most rescued people _like_ their rescuers, but they don't leave their other safe caretakers like Clémence to stay with them. Or become glued to them.

Her parents had died today and her (half-) brother had frightened her and now she was contentedly sitting on my lap like everything was alright with the world! What...And Sherlock. He'd taken a liking to her. Repeat: _Sherlock_ _had taken a liking to a child. _ When we'd first met, he wouldn't have bothered with them. Now he had some patience with them. But he quickly became annoyed if, when he'd picked their brains and their parents' brains through them, they proved unkind or petty or spoiled.

He'd also had that weird observation before. He said she had my hair. I looked at her head, so up close that it was almost impossible not to. Her hair had the barest of waves in it with hints of dusty ash peeking through almost white locks. When I was her age my hair had been the exact same shade...Oh. OH. But she couldn't possibly. The world didn't work like that. Best not jump to conclusions, make a fool of myself. I'm sure Sherlock would laugh at my thoughts right now.

I turned them to the case instead. Why was Sherlock asking James about Scott? Scott was dead, brought to the black river by a drunken James and held under until he drowned. You'd have to be pretty blasted and angry to kill your best mate. Though perhaps if Scott had killed James's parents then the drowning was in revenge for that? But why on earth would you kill your best friend's parents? What did you stand to gain?

Sherlock suddenly opened the door to my left and stormed out. "Come along, John. We've got to get to the hotel before Mycroft bugs our room. Again."

"What happened in there while I was out?" I picked up Alice and followed Sherlock out to the front of the building, putting on his scarf and great coat quickly and too lost in the case to answer. Things had not gone well then and he was hiding even more from me: the grace of his gait seemed the tiniest bit forced. My shoulders tensed with anger a little. But then Lestrade was right behind and looked worried. "What about Alice then?"

At the sound of her name, the girl stretched up to look about. Lestrade and her shared a decided glance. She then looked to Sherlock who was looking at us impatiently. Alice yawned and tucked her head into my neck as if to sleep. "I've arranged for her to come with us."

"What?" said Lestrade. "Is this Mycroft's doing?"

Sherlock smirked. "He permanently owes me a favor."

"Hang on, Sherlock, we can't just take a girl to a hotel room," I said.

"Witness Protection. Dull. Lestrade, make sure to work on finding Scott's body and Alice's father. John, hurry up, we've got to go."

With that, we headed out, leaving Lestrade muttering something about Mycroft not being allowed to arrange police matters without telling him. Sherlock flagged a taxi almost immediately, and we were off. He was silent for the entire ride. Once we were safely in our rooms, however, my patience was gone. "Sherlock, what are you thinking? _What are you not telling me?_"

He sat on the king-sized bed that occupied most of the room, hands already in his thinking pose. "James is not our killer," he said nonchalantly. "But I know who is."

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><p><strong>Holy teakettles it's a kind ofsort of cliffhanger! Please review! The story is actually already written and a sequel is underway. I'm trying to space it out a tad to drum up interest. Which now that I think about it is kind of evil...Sorry about that. I may update quicker now because the threat of no internet looms/it is not nice to be evil.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5! Thank you everyone who has story alerted, favorited, and reviewed this fic! It makes me feel very happy and loved. =D**

**Summary of this chapter: AND THE FLUFF RETURNS...oh and Alice sleeps a lot because she's 7 and stayed up all night in the closet, in case you thought it was a bit fishy.**

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><p>Chapter 5<p>

_And is it worth the wait_

_All this killing time?_

_Are you strong enough to stand_

_Protecting your heart and mine? _

-Florence and the Machine

"But enough of that now," Sherlock said.

"What?" I looked at Sherlock carefully. His face was smooth, showing no wrinkle of deceit. His eyes were not stormy, but calm, focused. No tension in the body, but just smooth and sleek as always.

He was hiding something.

"Sherlock, what are you keeping from me?" I asked quietly. Whenever he kept something from me, something went wrong. Terribly wrong. Something that got him almost killed. That couldn't happen. I was carrying Alice still, barely through the doorway. She had fallen asleep again on the way here. At that moment she seemed impossibly heavy. A weight, a barrier between Sherlock and me.

The detective cocked his head at me. His gaze was evaluative, taking in my whole person. Suddenly, Sherlock melted: his shoulders rounded, his hands went to rest on his thighs, his head down. He shook his head once. "John."

"Don't try to mush your way out of-" but in one swift, bird-like grace Sherlock had closed the space between us. He leaned down and caught my lips with his own. We hadn't eaten anything since breakfast, so he tasted just of his own particular tang: an alien zest of life and running and chemicals and electricity that I could only find on him. He took my head in his hands, carding through my hair and sending little thrums of happiness down my skull.

He broke it off and whispered something that sounded like, "You beautiful human being," before going down the side of jaw without Alice in it.

"Sherlock-" He ignored me and breathed warmly in the shell of my ear and kissed space behind. I opened my eyes suddenly, feeling the pupils dilate. "Sherlock, Alice is _right here_."

He bit my outer ear, then grabbed the earlobe, and sucked once. I fought against a shiver and failed. "All the more reason," he said. "Teach her the consequences of occupying you so fully."

"I'm still mad at you. You know what happens when you keep things from me. Bad things happen."

"Oh, John." He pulled away to face me properly and grinned to see the state of my pupils. "Nothing could go wrong from this." I frowned, not believing it for one second.

He leaned close again, breathing the combined scents of me and Alice. "John, you have to trust me."

"I trust you, you big idiot."

His smile broadened, and he took my lips again. Suddenly I was backed against the nearest wall.

"Sherlock...Sherlock. SHERLOCK. ALICE."

He growled into my skin, the movement vibrating his throat He pulled back and began gathering his things. "I have to contact my network to find our killer. Has to be somewhere in Southampton. I'll be back in an hour. Stay here with her, will you? I can bring some take-out for dinner."

Now he was going out without me. Not that I'd be much help with Alice in tow. "Make sure to get something Alice likes. I fancy you've already deduced as much." Sherlock smirked. "If you are not back in an hour, I am coming after you."

He came to me once more and pecked me on the lips. "Yes, John." Then he was gone.

I used the time to practice Alice being separated from me. If Sherlock was tracking a killer, then that meant running after one eventually which meant either she had to keep up (unlikely) or leave me temporarily. I placed her on the bed to finish her nap and sat about two inches away. My arms ached from holding her so long. It turned out Mycroft had some of our stuff from Baker Street brought, including some books, changes of clothes for us and new things for Alice. Nice of him.

When Alice woke up, she was panicked a moment before she realized I was right next to her reading the latest medical journal. "I'm right here," I told her, smoothing her hair. "But in the near future I might need to be away for a bit to make sure Sherlock isn't being an idiot. But I will come back. I promise." I smiled at her and she tentatively smiled back. She snuggled closer for a minute and I thought she was asleep again. Then she sprang up suddenly and looked about the room. "We're in a hotel, still in Southampton. Sherlock's out doing...Sherlock stuff." She arched one eyebrow at me. "Well, if you really want to know, he's giving money to homeless people so they will tell him where your parents' killer is."

She frowned and shook her head as if this was a silly thing to do. "I suppose you could tell us?" How much did Alice know? Could she know the entire event and all our efforts just look silly to her? She just looked at me and closed her eyes as if it was painful. "I'm not saying you have to because Sherlock will figure it out with or without your help." She opened her eyes again, but her face still looked strained. "But anyway, the washroom is over there if you need it. You can see the telly. Other than that, there's this bed. Oh and Mycroft-Sherlock's older brother-got you clothes."

She nodded her approval of this course of action. Then she turned to me uncertainly, biting her lip. I guessed her thoughts. "You need to use the facilities?" Her head bobbed once. "Come on then." Leaving my book, she held my hand to cross the room, but stopped me at the bathroom door to my surprise. She looked at me squarely though, as if challenging me to move. She shut the door. One minute later she was out and darted to the sink, reaching for the facet. I turned it on for her and handed her the bar of soap. She gave me a watery smile, as if fighting her urge to keep the touch. As soon as she had dried her hand on the towels, it was back in mine. My much larger fingers encased her own and I chuckled. "Good work, Alice. You're alright." She flashed me the not-smile again and took some quick breaths. Instead of heading towards the bed again, she just stood there.

She let go of my hand and took a careful step forward, as if worried that the world without me was so fragile that a single step would make it crack. I frowned and felt my forehead crease. Alice...She hopped around the room a bit more. Each time acting like the foot falling would burn upon contact with the floor. Her eyes widened with fear and her breathing accelerated as the minutes of the exercise ticked by.

At the ten minute mark she started to shake and I couldn't take it anymore. I scooped her up in my arms and went to the bed. I sat with my back against the headboard with her in my lap. I rubbed circles in her small back, and she looped her arms around my neck, burying her head in as much of my chest as possible. This girl...After a minute or so she stopped trembling, pecked me on the neck again, and slid to lay only her head on my lap. I picked up my book again and she started to drift to sleep.

But I wasn't reading. I stayed on the same page. The minutes that Sherlock wasn't here dragged on. Instead of uselessly worrying about him however (he would be fine, John. Really fine and dandy and back in 32 minutes), I directed my thoughts towards Alice in order to calm down. My hand moved down to her head and she tugged it a little, pulling it down further so to tuck it under her chin. I chuckled: I'd never been used in place of a stuffed animal before. I made a mental note go get one as soon as the case was over.

Wait, Alice wouldn't be coming with us when the case was over. Would she? I mulled over previous thoughts as my heartbeat slowed. A girl with intuition. A girl with a soldier's disposition to push herself. A girl with Sherlock's eyes. A girl with my...

I must have fallen into a light doze because the next thing I heard was the door open and Sherlock's voice. "Ah, sleeping on the job again, Dr. Watson?" Adrenaline pumped, my eyes flew open, and my hand flew to my gun. "Tut, tut, it's impolite to shoot your flatmate." Sherlock was laden down with bags of take-away Chinese which he put on the bed. "Good evening, _mon ami_."

The girl sat up and rubbed her eyes. When she saw Sherlock, her smile broadened and, to the surprise of everyone else in the room, she used the bed to spring up into Sherlock's arms. She wiggled around the thin man in delight and kissed him on the neck, mussing her nose into his curls. I burst out laughing at Sherlock's dumbfounded expression of shock. "Your mouth is hanging open, dear."

He closed it with a snap and gently put his arms around her. "I see you're pleased to see me and that John has used the past hour to successfully detach you from him only to attach you to me." She wiggled again at the joke before sliding down Sherlock's front and racing back to my side, carefully sitting with her legs crossed yet one knee touching mine. Sherlock's cheeks were pink and that only made me laugh even harder. He coughed once to stop my laughter and regain some dignity.

I mussed Alice's hair. "Good girl, Alice. That's the only way to greet this sociopath, okay?" She practically beamed at us.

"Yes, well, excellent work. I have food and news. Shall we have both at once?"

As we cracked open the boxes of take-away and bottles of water, I told Sherlock of Alice's exciting forays into not touching someone. He seemed interested, his eyes darting from me and Alice and back. "Interesting," was his only comment.

But then we got to the bit of the conversation I was most interested in. "Are you going to tell me what you've been doing?"

Sherlock stuffed a bit of noodle in his mouth before sighing. "Alice likes Chinese," he said. She was eating with gusto, thankfully. Equally thankfully, Sherlock was actually eating while on a case.

"Don't try to distract me." I saw through that charade at least. I could almost feel it: some slime, some invisible layer of information coating Sherlock's skin, barring me from something.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "We'll have our killer soon, possibly by tonight. Lestrade's team hasn't found Scott's body in the river, but with a body of water that big it could be a bit it difficult. Most of James's statements about Scott and he being friends and racing all over the place was seconded by Clémence. There's news about Alice's father. Apparently, there's a special note attached that if the produced offspring is in any trouble or needs assistance, he's to be contacted. Someone's going to be getting a surprising letter in the mail," he finished nonchalantly.

My body stiffened imperceptibly at the prospect. That would be some mail. But back to the case, I wanted to test my earlier theory on Sherlock, unlikely as it sounded. "Do you think Scott killed James's parents and then James drowned him in revenge?"

The proposal was shot down immediately, as I knew it would. "Don't be romantic, John. If James witnessed his parents' murder in addition to the alarming amount of alcohol he consumed, he would curl up into the fetus position and cry in the corner of the library. He wouldn't have enough cognitive function to go drown anybody."

No clues as to what he was hiding then. The rest of the evening was spent watching crap telly, drinking tea, Alice practicing walking on her own, and Sherlock's pacing increasing as the hours dragged on. Sometimes Alice and Sherlock would bump into each other and Sherlock would try to stop her fall which would result in Alice treating him like a human jungle gym and Sherlock depositing the giggling girl onto me after he got tired of it. I wasn't really paying attention, still lost in my own thoughts. By eleven, Alice was asleep next to me in bed, her tiny limbs flopped this way and that, like a cat snoozing in the sun.

Sherlock and I were still awake and in our clothes, ready at a moment's notice. "Why is it taking so long?" he whispered angrily. "Where the hell could he be?"

"Is the killer a 'he' now?"

"Don't be smart, John."

"Because you're smart enough for us both."

"This is infuriating!"

"I'm terribly sorry. Maybe if you told me what you were thinking I could help."

An eye zinged to me. "I've told you. Trust me."

"Sherlock..." I took a breath. "about Alice."

Sherlock's body went rigid and his pacing stopped. His back was too me, but his balled hands lowered to his sides. "What about her?"

This was going to be embarrassing, but I kept a steady gaze on Sherlock's back. "I think-when I was going to medical school, I needed to pay for it somehow. Avenues were drying up so I...became a sperm donor." I could feel my face heating up in a blush. "It was a long time ago, before the war. And I was thinking-you know, just maybe..." I winced at the trailing ending. "Alice might be my daughter. I left those same instructions in the off chance my genetic material was ever used."

Sherlock's reaction, just like the rest of him, was unpredictable.

He spun on the spot, raced over to the bed, and grabbed one of my hands. His eyes were gleaming green with excited light and his face was almost split with a wry smile. He leaned in close to me, our noses almost touching. "That's brilliant," he whispered. "I was hoping-I was so hoping-"

At that point both he and I thought talk was useless. We grabbed each other and our mouthes were on fire with each other's skin and taste and smell. In an instant, Sherlock was straddling me, one hand on me and the other to steady himself on the mattress, and I was pinned against the headboard. But he seemed to be everywhere, tugging off my jumper and un-buttoning my shirt, kissing my collarbone, stomach, neck all the while whispering "You brilliant, brilliant, forwarding-thinking man."

I was kissing any portion of him I could reach, yanking up and off his jacket and speedily unbuttoning his shirt. Feeling slightly trapped but also enjoying the sensation of running my hands up and down his back into his curls, I couldn't help adding, "It was a silly thing for money, Sherlock. And she's part yours too."

That only stopped him for a half-second so he could issue a longer sentence "Another reason why it's so _phantasmic_." I finally got hold of his wandering limbs and dexterously flipped us over so Sherlock was lying on the bed, kiss-bruised.

I claimed that cherry mouth as mine again before reminding him, "She's also sleeping right next to us at this exact moment."

Sherlock stopped. He then gave me long last kiss, full more of sweetness then need and settled down under me. "We're sleeping like this."

I wasn't one to complain. Sherlock had told me one thing he was thinking.

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><p><strong>Because in my mind, Sherlock doesn't really want kids. However, he wouldn't mind having <strong>_**John's**_** kids. And John-the-family-man likes children, but he would/has given them up for Sherlock. Having a girl like Alice is a miracle to him. And she's a very neat authorial device for making Sherlock and John indirectly have a child. I think a lot of you probably saw this coming, but oh well. XD**

**Hate it? Love it? Meh? Please review!**


	6. Chapter 6

**CLIMAXXXXXXXXX! Again, many, many, many, many tea-and-jam thanks to everyone who has alerted, reviewed, or favorited this story! SO MUCH LOVE. As of right now, NicolieTheFace wins the BEST REVIEW EVER AWARD OF AWESOMENESS. I read it this morning and I WAS LAUGHING FOR THE NEXT 10 MINUTES. Please don't die, dear, but oh my gosh LOL. You're going to enjoy this chapter...or possibly want to kill me, but it gets better! 'Tis also super long: 13 pages!**

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><p>Chapter 6<p>

_My love has concrete feet_

_My love's an iron ball_

_Wrapped around your ankles_

_Over the waterfall_

-Florence and the Machine

I awoke tangled in not one but two persons. Both Sherlock and Alice were sprawled across the bed, but both had managed not to crush each other and maintain some sort of contact with me. I smiled and carefully extracted myself from them to go to the loo. Sherlock mumbled something, but remained still. When I was finished I tiptoed back, rummaged in the bags Mycroft had provided, checked Alice was really asleep, and changed into new clothes. My stomach rumbled.

Sherlock's head was thankfully close to the edge of the bed. I put my hands on the side of his face and kissed him awake softly. "Hey."

"Good morning," Sherlock murmured, barely opening his eyes. "I had a dream..."

I felt a grin split on my face and I knew I was smiling like a fool, but I didn't care. "It wasn't a dream. We're parents." I whispered the last word like it was forbidden and Sherlock gave me a wry smile.

"Indirectly on my part," he replied. He reached a long arm from somewhere and clasped my collar, pulling me down into another smooth kiss. After a minute he released me and set his forehead against mine. Breathing harder, he asked, "And where is the new father going this morning?"

I chuckled, "Getting some breakfast. I don't want our daughter to starve."

"Mmmmmmm," he said. He closed his eyes and made to go back to sleep. "Be back soon. She likes me, but I'm no substitute for you." He said that, but as I straightened away from him, he unconsciously curled his body around hers protectively. Almost in response, Alice rolled towards him in sleep, perhaps waking up enough to realize who it was and snuggle closer until her ear was against his heartbeat.

I think they'll be alright.

I left with a bounce in my step, a spark of happiness in my stomach. I walked down the stairs, through the lobby, and outside to the street. I hoped to pick something up cheap. Raising Alice with Sherlock would be daunting, but Sherlock seemed more than willing. He seemed excited, ecstatic like he only ever was when on a case. Well, perhaps not as sharp as that. It was a more mellow, pleasant, slow joy. Like when we'd first been married or...civil unionified. I twisted the band on my finger around, relishing in its smooth hardness. I turned a street corner, searching for a shop with some ounce of health food.

We would need to find a decent school. Something not too expensive or Mycroft would start messing with our finances. And close by but no where near enough that if some bomber decided to blow up our flat, she wouldn't be in danger or hear the sirens to make her worry. And no where _near_ the mob dens that Sherlock had found recently. They were in surprisingly well-to-do areas.

I stepped into a shop, meandering down the aisles for fruit or juice or sandwich material. Would Sherlock eat breakfast too? Two meals in a row would be a record for on-the-case-eating. I wonder what Alice was like in school. She seemed artistic. My hand faltered before picking up an apple. But what if we couldn't take her? What about her old friends at her current school? What about her voice? With slight shock, I realized I had never heard it. I shook my head. It would be alright. Sherlock and I had healed each other. Surely we could heal a person so close to us.

Arms laden with breakfast, I went to the check-out (the teller, not the chip-and-PIN machine). The teller looked slightly bored and very tired, dark circles under her be-shadowed eyes. She rang up the food and I paid. It wasn't until I had almost exited the shop that I saw the day's newspapers. And thus the front page.

"Devonfort Murder!" the paper blazed in black ink. "Son Suspected." The murdered Devonforts were on the cover as well as a picture of a disgruntled Lestrade. I felt the blood drain from my face. What had I been thinking? Alice was part of a case, this case and her parents-her real parents-had been killed. Abigail's matted, bloodied hair was staining the front page, the blank surprise on her husband's pale face echoing out like an accusation. Sherlock and I were dealing with a traumatized child. A child that couldn't stand being physically apart from one of us for more than thirty minutes. She was strong, but...not an adult. A child. A child around Sherlock who had barely grown out of childhood himself, it seems.

I rushed back to the hotel, realizing that we needed to get this case over and done with. I opened the door to find a dressed Sherlock with Alice sitting on his shoulders, fingering through his curls. She was wearing something obviously Sherlock had helped her pick out: gray pants with a solid-color purple shirt that set off her hair alarmingly. I burst out laughing despite myself.

Sherlock looked up at me quizzically, and Alice, sheepishly. "John, there hasn't been any word about the case! Don't just stand there and laugh!"

I was still chortling to myself as I dumped the shopping on the bed. "I see you dressed Alice."

Sherlock smiled, distracted from his mood. "Yes. She helped too and then she climbed on and won't get down so I left her there. Unfortunately that means I can't stand up or I will hit her head on the ceiling." He put a hand on one of her legs as he spoke in a slight gesture of securing her atop him. My uncertainties burbled up to the forefront of my mind again.

"Well, I got the shopping. Alice, you need to eat at least. Sherlock...?"

The man shook his head and Alice begrudgingly slid down. I handed her a water bottle and an apple. She bowed her head in thanks and went back on the bed to sit on Sherlock's now crossed legs, leaning into his chest and munching on the fruit contentedly. Sherlock's hair was all tangled now, curls spilling on all over his face. His eyes were stormy, looking at me but not really seeing. I sighed and sat on the bed too, making Alice and myself a sandwich.

"Something's troubling you."

I started and looked up to Sherlock looking at me intently, one arm around Alice who glanced at the man above her to me. Suddenly, two concerned faces were facing my way. How was I going to get out of this one?

"We need to solve this case," I said simply, taking a bite of the newly-made sandwich and handing the other to Alice.

"All in good time," Sherlock said. "If we want a short cut, Alice can tell us." The arm around her middle reached up and ruffled her hair before securing its former place again. "But I doubt she knows anything I don't."

"Well, I'm glad you and her are so telepathic," I snapped a little. Alice's eyes grew wide. She frowned and wriggled away from Sherlock to me. Taking my head in her hands, she put our foreheads together, closed her eyes, and hummed.

It was a clear sound, like a thrumming bell.

Then I felt all the force of it, this brief acquaintance with this strange girl, this connection, this bond, this want to be together.

Like another scarlet chain.

She had chosen us to be her parents.

I wrapped her into a hug, and Sherlock wrapped his long arms around us both. These two people...these two people were the two people I could not lose. It simply wasn't an option. "We'll raise her together," Sherlock promised.

We stayed like that for a moment, before unraveling like a Russian doll and adopting our previous positions. Sherlock kissed each of our foreheads as if to seal the deal. And then, as if on cue, Sherlock's mobile buzzed with a text from Lestrade.

**Text Message From: Greg Lestrade**

**Time: 9:12am 27/3/2017**

New development on case. You must see this. Come to house at once. -GL

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. "What? How...?" Some niggle of doubt came into his eyes. "He's not that stupid. Or perhaps he's being extremely clever?" He looked at Alice and I and shook his head. "Mustn't theorize ahead of facts. Come along, John." He tickled Alice's sides. "And _mon amie_."

As we hailed a cab, I still couldn't shake the weighty feeling I was under. Sherlock and Alice were going to a crime scene. The place Alice had seen her horror. And she was a child. Sometimes I slowed Sherlock down, but a child? What if...? But no. We were just _looking_ at a crime scene: our killer wouldn't be there. I was just thinking this because Sherlock still hadn't told me something, I realized. Part of it must have been his suspicions about Alice, but something else, some piece of heavy, slippery information, was being held back. I felt a hand squeeze mine and realized Sherlock had reached across Alice to find me. I laced our fingers together. Alice leaned against me, content.

I wished the moment could last, but we'd arrived at Devonfort's. Lestrade met us at the road. "You still got the kid with you?"

"Of course. Now, what's happened?" Sherlock said. Alice was holding my hand lightly and looking between the two men.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow, but continued on. "Anderson found something that we didn't see yesterday."

"You called us over here because of _Anderson_?"

"Well, it's important and puts even more serious blame on James." Lestrade frowned. "I know he can be a bit of a git, but Anderson tries, Sherlock."

"Ah, yes, 'the improbable one,' solving stupid internet puzzles and who's idea of rebellion against society is improper capitalization."

"Just show us the bloody thing so we can leave," I interrupted. Both men looked at me and Alice gave my hand a small tug towards her house as if to show she agreed with me. She was frowning, her brow furrowed a bit in concentration, and looking at the house oddly as if to say something was not right. Something had changed. My inner apprehension shot up a bit. The something heavy settled deeper on my chest. Something was about to go wrong. Lestrade just nodded, had a small glaring contest with Sherlock, and led the way into the house past Donovan and through the seemingly endless rooms into the kitchen.

"This is where the food was stolen from," I noted.

"And here," said Lestrade going over to a refrigerator. It was stuck in a corner against the wall and the stove. He pulled it away from the wall. "is a bloody thumbprint."

Sherlock pushed Lestrade away and examined the print. "Very recent, no more than a day old. James's but somebody else's blood."

"We got all that," said Lestrade, crossing his arms. "What else?"

Sherlock stared at the print for a moment longer before turning to us. A wry smile grew on his face. Then he chuckled. Then he giggled. Then he was outright laughing. "Oh! That's brilliant. So brilliant and impossibly, impossibly stupid! But clever, so insanely clever!"

"What's brilliant?" I asked impatiently. My heart was starting to pound against my ribs. "Sherlock-"

Immediately, Sherlock had a straight face, but I could tell that his humor was barely restrained. Looking at Lestrade, "May I borrow a tape measure?"

The Detective Inspector was taken aback. "A what?"

Sherlock charged out of the room. "Donovan! Hand me that tape measure you've got in your left pocket!"

I ran after him with Alice in tow to see the ends of his coat tails flick around the corner. We raced to the library and found Sherlock excitedly measuring every inch of the walls. "Sherlock, what the hell-"

"Don't you think it's strange that James would get food if he was just going over to Mina's anyway? Or how William and Abigail were struck from behind? When you argue with somebody as raging and violent as James, why would you turn your back? Or how the police only found that thumbprint today? They're not that thick. And how would one leave a thumbprint like that? Just stick your thumb against the wall while opening the icebox? Or the will, oh _the will_. All his parents would need to do would be to show him a copy of it and his anger would be less than murderous. And Scott's body, _conveniently_ never found."

He was talking at light-speed, running around like a madman. He raced to an adjoining room. "What are you-"

"Or how my homeless network-the best network in Britain-could come up dry? Finding an international criminal like Golem, but not a mere child?"

"James could have grabbed food because he was in a panic and didn't know where he was going! Could've disposed of it somewhere!" I shouted.

"What the bloody hell is going o-" Lestrade had finally caught up.

"John!" Sherlock interrupted. "Get ready." He ran back to the library and when we caught up, he was facing a panel of books directly opposite the one Alice had been found it. He was licking his lips and eyes flashing in the thrill of chase. The sound of my heartbeat seemed to ring in my ears.

"Come out, come out wherever you are," he said slowly, dangerously. He raised his voice and spun around to walk as he talked at the walls. "I know you can hear me, killer. The one who planned this whole dance. Very clever. Very, very clever and well-planned. And you've had a long time to plan. To plot. To revenge. You know all the secrets of this house, all the secret passages that no one else knew: been in it since you were a boy, tagging along with the stronger for mere _survival_ or so you thought anyway. Until you realized there was something more important than your _own_ survival. And then you almost killed him! You and your inaction!"

"Sherlock, tell me!" I wanted to throttle him. Alice was cowering away, shaking her head back and forth. She let go of my hand to twitch towards the door. I barely noticed.

"Oh John. Follow a stronger boy forever until you start having sympathy with your victims. Have you seen Scott's picture, John? Green underwear." I sucked in a breath. Sherlock lowered his voice. "Come out and play, Scott."

Something down the hall, outside the library, creaked. Sherlock was off like a beam of light. I shot after him like a comet's tail, pushing past Alice and Lestrade. We were tailing a man with straight brown hair, brutally cut short. Even in the midst of the chase, I could make out a muscular build.

Right, left, left, right, straight through two rooms. This house was huge! Surely he'd run out of space. I could hear the police organizing, shouts of them circling the house. My lungs heaved and I could hear Lestrade hammering after us. "You can't run forever, Scott!" shouted Sherlock. We were nearing the front entrance where surely Sally would-

"I don't intend to!" the boy shouted behind him. In one swift movement, he leaned down, picked up a heavy bronze statue of a dog, and threw it behind him.

I watched in horror as the statue sailed in the air. Sherlock moved to dodge it, but slipped. It was that tiniest of slips on the loose carpet-the_ damned loose carpet_ sliding out from under his shoe's tread-that caused the projectile to hit Sherlock square in the face. My gut wrenched as I heard a sickening crack. Sherlock's upper body was catapulted backwards into me, his feet leaving the floor entirely. I reached out my arms to catch him as we smashed into each other, the heavy weight of Sherlock's skull jamming into my collarbone and forcing me down. In that instant I heard the whipcracks of a gun, one bullet zooming just past my ear and implanting itself bodily into Scott's shoulder in the exact spot that I knew,_ I knew_ it would produce a scar to match my own.

"Stand down!" shouted Sally, coming into view.

"Never," Scott answered. "James deserved every last thing he got."

"Have it your way then," Sally growled. "but don't mess with my freaks." The gun fired and Scott clutched his right leg.

But something was wrong. Sherlock wasn't moving, wasn't bouncing up to make a snarky comment about Donovan showing some loyalty or fondness. "Sherlock," I nudged him. The blood drained from my face. "Sherlock!" I scrambled out from under him for a better view. His forehead was bleeding, the liquid draining down an ashy face. "No-no. Sherlock! Sherlock, can you hear me?" No response. I put pressure on the wound, hoping to stem the blood flow and elicit a reaction. I found his pulse with my other hand. "Sherlock, open your eyes, God damn it!"

He sucked in a breath and his eyes fluttered. His pupils were dilating and contracting, unable to focus. "John?"

"I'm here, Sherlock. I'm here. Don't leave me again, love. You can't leave." I was blathering incoherently, just anything to make him focus, make him stay in this world. He turned his head to try to see me, but his pupils were raging so at most all could see was my blurry image.

"I love you," he whispered.

"Sherlock, don't say things like that. You're not going to die."

He lifted his head and kissed me.

"But those are the best last words."

He closed his eyes and turned his head away. "Don't you dare, you insufferable git!" I shouted at him. "Don't fall asleep!" I pressed harder on his wound, but nothing happened. He was breathing, his pulse was pumping. He was still alive, but suffering from a cracked skull and a concussion. Which, it seemed, was turning into a coma.

He might not ever wake up from that.

"Sherlock!" I took my red fingers from his head and snapped them above his head, next to his ears. "Wake up, you bloody idiot!" No response. "We were going to raise Alice together!"

But all the rest was silence.

I sat there for a moment, shell-shocked. The only movement, the only sound, the only thing that mattered was the steady beat under my fingers.

Lestrade said something. Sally said something. Anderson, who'd apparently walked on the scene, said something.

All I could feel was rage.

I placed Sherlock's wrist carefully on the floor. Then I stood up, jammed my hands in my pocket, and got out the Browning. The next thing I knew Scott was whimpering on the floor with my gun pinned to his temple and ready to blow out his brains.

"_What have you done?" _ I seethed through my teeth. _"Give me one good reason not to splatter every brain cell worth a damn onto this Godforsaken floor._" Everything was tinged with scarlet. My hands were tinged scarlet.

"John-" came Lestrade's voice.

"Tell me!" I shook him. "Why did you do this?"

Scott's face was contorted, his eyes tearing up. "James and I teased him for years. Made him feel like shit. And then I accidentally fell in love with him. It was secret. Shhh, a secret." He put a finger to his lips. "But then, he died. Blew his own brains out because he couldn't take it anymore!" The boy laughed crazily. "And I couldn't save him! I didn't save him even when James almost killed him!"

I smashed his head against the wall to make him shut up. "Not good enough." My hand fingered the trigger. Eliminate the enemy, the hurter, the betrayer.

"Dr. Watson, let him go!"

"Papa, stop!"

I froze. Who was that? That voice: I had never heard that voice before. That clear, bell-like voice. I released the stupid man and turned around. Stepping over Sherlock was Alice. Strange, lovely, impossible _Alice_. Her face was white, her hands were shaking, her eyes wide and imploring. Sherlock's eyes with tears in them. "Papa..."

"Alice," I breathed. I dropped the gun and went over to scoop her up into a hug, smothering us both in each other's warmth. I felt like I was drowning, drowning in warmth and tears and anguish. We sat next to Sherlock's limp and sprawled form and waited. I reached out and continued to put pressure on his bleeding wound.

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><p><strong>Review to tell me how much you hate me. =D<strong>


	7. Chapter 7

**Hello! Second to last chapter! THANK YOU EVERYONE FOR ALL THE SUPPORT AND LOOOOOVVVEEEE. It makes me so indescribably happy.**

**This chapter is very short (only 4 pages) and a bit of an interlude. Backstory chapter is full of backstory. I hope the Florence & The Machine quotes make more sense now. While they do apply to Sherlock & John's situation, they more aptly apply to/are meant to be about Scott. He's the one who's been weighed down with grief/unfulfilled love, this is his last confession, he's the one who creeps through corridors etc.**

**WARNING for this chapter: Heavy violence against gays**

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><p>Chapter 7<p>

_This will be my last confession_

_I love you never felt like any blessing_

_(Ohhhh)_

_Whispering like it's a secret_

_Only to condemn the one who hears it_

_With a heavy heart_

-Florence and the Machine

_**Someone somewhere...**_

Scott's story went like this.

James and he had been friends as soon as they were born. They were a dire duo at school, hitting and bullying other children with their fists and rich parents and smug little faces. One of their favorite activities was to play elaborate war games in and out of the maze of secret passageways in the Devonfort house.

Violence was a fact of their life. James's father was a drinker, who would expel everything away from him, including hard objects and his child. His mother had been kind, but she and her husband had been distant. Scott's parents had taught him that the only way to be a man was to be a killer: to be punch faster, kick harder, run quicker, be stronger than everybody else. All along being mannerly to the correct people and intelligent enough. Being in the military was the epitome of manhood.

In any case, as they grew older, the beatings got rougher and more clandestine. Male queers were one of their favorite targets because of Scott's parents'-and therefore Scott's-attitude.

James and Scott were inseparable friends from the beginning, but in uni Scott started to branch out. He met new people, one was Dillian who was also in Scott's physics class. Dillian was a sensitive man, almost more artist than scientist. He played some football and would watch Scott and James's practices. Slowly, Scott started changing. Away from his parents, away from James, he started thinking for himself. Dillian encouraged the new thoughts and Scott started having feelings for his new friend. But he knew he could never admit them to anyone. Ever. It would be like death.

Eventually however, something had to give. His parents were pressuring him to enlist the moment he graduated. His feelings for Dillian were growing daily, and James was noticing that his friend was becoming distant. James was feeling betrayed and that Dillian, who he didn't much like in the first place, was stealing Scott away. Scott, meanwhile, found out Dillian was gay...and wrote him a love letter.

In an unfortunate twist of events, James found it.

The reaction was instantaneous.

James beat Dillian to a bloody pulp while Scott stood by and denied all knowledge of the love letter he had written.

As they say, each action has an equal and opposite reaction.

Scott had to pretend nothing had happened-of course his not-so-best-friend-anymore hadn't beaten the man he loved. Dillian disappeared. Left school. He ended up on the wrong end of the bully's fist and insults one too many times and decided to end it all. Scott was at his funeral and that's probably when he started plotting revenge.

"I wanted to hurt him as much as he had hurt Dillian, had hurt me. I wanted to leave him as empty as he had left the both of us."

So he planned. He waited. He knew all about the Devonforts and their troubles. When the will issue came up, he pounced on his chance.

Believing with James that the will left all to Alice, he got his former friend completely drunk on the night they were supposed to go to the Devonfort's house for Easter. Once James had achieved blackout, Scott also gave him a date-rape drug to ensure that James would not remember anything.

He drove James to the house, all the while riling him up about the will. Scott knew just what buttons to press after all.

He knew Clémence took sleeping pills and wouldn't wake for anything. He figured Alice would be asleep too and was probably used to any shouting given her family's usual habits whenever James was around. As the parents and James started arguing, he chose a moment when no one was looking and bashed the William's and Abigail's heads in front of a shocked James while wearing gloves.

Forcing James to touch the bloodied poker, he then pushed his stumbling friend out of the kitchen side door with only the clothes on his back, a mobile in his pocket, an incriminating smear of his parents' blood on his jacket, and a wine bottle in his hand. Then the set up began.

He took one of James's old shoes from the row next to the door: luckily the exact replica of sport shoes that James wore now. He made impressions in the ground outside leading to the river from the window, along with making his own footprints. He then carefully placed his jacket on the bush, put on James's shoes, and walked back through the window. Taking off the shoes but keeping them with him, he went to the kitchen and secured a supply of food. With that he that done, he hid in one of the secret passageways that only he and James knew about to wait.

He heard the police investigation through the walls. The passages were numerous where he could get to almost any part of the house undetected-thus the cramped feeling of the whole house. He had heard Sherlock and I, the discovery of Alice, the mistake about the will. He must have known we were coming for him.

But he wanted James to be vindicated. He had a wax mold of his friend's thumb already prepared in case such extra evidence was needed. Thus, using his own blood, he pressed the reddened mould to the kitchen wall.

And then we caught him, costing potentially Sherlock's whole being.

And he said he regretted nothing apart from Dillian.

I felt sorry for him, but deep down didn't care.

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><p><strong>"It'll be alright in the end. If it's not alright, then it's not the end."<strong>


	8. Chapter 8

**Hello! Another shortish chapter is up! I've also got some business to attend to though.**

**1. "Someone somewhere wake me up" is a phrase borrowed from one of ABakerStreetIrregular's fic of the same name. It's a good story (all of theirs are really good actually) so check it out if you have the time.**

**2. Oh snap. Colors Beyond the Spectrum was lovely and reviewed and told me that "mon ami" is the masculine form of the phrase "my friend." Since Alice is a girl she should have the feminine "mon amie." I'm going to go back and change it, but this is what happens when Missing Triforce tries to use French when she knows next to no French and is just ripping it from the Agatha Christie Hercule Poirot novels she's reading (Christie FTW!).**

**3. I lied. This is NOT the last chapter. There's an epilogue.**

**5. The promise referred to in this chapter (as in "_Fuck your stupid promise_") is the promise Sherlock made to John in my other fic, _After, _NOT his promise to raise Alice with John. For those who haven't read _After_, in that story Sherlock promised he'd die first, meaning that he's never going to (or ever want to) outlive John.**

**4. Phew, that was a lot. I love you all. Thanks for all the support! Leave a review if you like!**

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><p>Chapter 8<p>

_I was a heavy heart to carry_

_But he never let me down_

_When he had me in his arms_

_My feet never touched the ground_

-Florence and the Machine

_**Someone somewhere wake me up.**_

After six hours, Sherlock passed the mark of mere concussion to coma.

It has now been seven days.

He could breathe on his own, and his heart pumped on its own. He simply didn't wake up.

Alice and I were waiting for him to wake up.

Every time I woke up in the morning I thought I was falling asleep into one of my nightmares. But my actual dreams were no better: all involved death. Alice would sleep in Sherlock and I's bed with me and tried to help. Whenever she woke to me twitching, she'd kiss my forehead and snuggle closer. She's stretch her legs, trying to make them as long as Sherlock's. At least that's what I would remember her doing in that lucid place between sleeping and waking.

Other times, I'd wake up and she'd hold my head to hers and hum a tune I didn't know-maybe something Clémence had taught her-until I fell back asleep dreamlessly.

At the hospital, we'd sit in the uncomfortable plastic chairs of his room. Alice would sit on my lap silently, just watching her other father patiently. She noted every movement, every rise and fall of his chest. I bet my best jumper she was going to grow up just like him.

Sherlock being unconscious had happened before, of course. But every time was unadulterated agony. It felt like a hand was squeezing my ribs, gently tightening around the fleshy valve of my heart. It hurt to breathe almost. My stomach was all prickly pain and knots of uncertainty wound together. When it became too much, I would hold Alice to me harder. She would then give me a peck on the neck and snuggle closer. "It shall be well, Papa."

Her voice, whenever it came, was always startling. It was so clear but held an air of mystery or unknown, like a foggy morning on a mountain: everything was hypersensitive and still, but also an ancient calm pervaded. So unlike Sherlock's deep thunder or my sunny wood.

Every day Alice and I would come to Sherlock's room at the beginning of visiting hours. And then we would talk. I told Alice of our adventures (the not-so-graphic ones at least).

"I thought he was a madman after I left the lab. A real nutter. But somehow I found myself at 221b the next day."

"Suddenly Sherlock grabbed me and spun me around trying to 'maximize my visual memory' but really, I think, he just wanted an excuse to touch me. There was lots of under-the-radar flirting in the early days."

I tried to avoid the cases about Moriarty, but in those first years everything had to do with Moriarty. "Moriarty had promised to burn Sherlock's heart out, though why that had to involve Irene Adler, I don't know. Sherlock's never told me if they met before."

And of course I avoided the Riechenbach Fall.

That would be too much. Even if he had come back from it eventually, it was still too close. Too near what was happening now as each pang of the second hand ticked by. Sherlock was falling away from me, getting lost deeper and deeper into the whirlpool of his mind. Surely he'd never been asleep this long before? We were getting older, too old. Our bodies were starting to betray us.

I blinked and a second had passed. I blinked again and an hour was gone. I blinked a third time and Alice was asleep in the chair besides me and it must have been almost the end of visiting hours. Something wet was on my face.

What if Sherlock just died? What if he became a vegetable, his soul sucked down, down far from his body? What if his expressive face of which I had mesmerized every minutest detail never moved again? Never showed any emotion of sorrow or anger or smugness or authority or happiness or love? What if his hands never grasped for mine to drag me away from his brother or let us run together on a case or to let me hand him his phone which was just in this stupid pocket? What if he never again proved to me, to the world, how _fucking human_ he actually was?

_What was I going to do?_

I had Alice. I needed to keep it together for Alice.

But my face was just getting even wetter.

"Sherlock," I choked out. "Sherlock, please. Love, wake up. You have to wake up." I stumbled over to him, not caring anymore. I grabbed his limp hand and brought it to my lips. "My love, please. Don't do this to me. Don't do this to me, Sherlock." I kissed his knuckles, the coolness of his skin against my own hotness was reassuring. "I love you," I breathed. "Alice loves you. Please come back. _Fuck your stupid promise_." I put his hand all over my face, touching it to my burning forehead and cheeks. Please, dear God. _Not like this_. Don't take him _like this_. Not because of some _stupid kid and his damn dog statue_. Not now when we were about to _begin something_.

But death waits for no one. I should know that by now.

Sherlock was silent.

Fully crying now, I slipped into the sheets beside him, letting my legs lie over his and using my arms to press my side to him. I whispered. "Come back to me, Sherlock. I belong with you."

I fell asleep there, curled against the colder man.

Somebody must have pitied us because when I woke up the lights were dimmed for sleep. The first thing I could make out was Alice had also climbed into the bed to be on the other side of Sherlock.

"John..."

Let this be real. I started up in an instant and looked down to see Sherlock's smoky blue eyes gazing lazily at me under heavy lids and a weak smile on his lips.

_Oh thank God._

"Hello John."

My heart was hammering like it wanted to bound out of my chest. "Oh my God, Sherlock." I sank down and buried my head in the space between his neck and shoulder and never wanted to move.

He chuckled and pressed a hand to the back of my head, carding his fingers through the hair. "How long was I out?"

"If it's still the third of April then seven days."

"The clock says 12:03am"

"Eightish days then." I felt my eyes tearing up in relief that he was alive, _truly alive_. He'd surfaced and come back to me. God...

"I'm sorry. Thanks for not giving up on me."

Suddenly I was all motion. I peppered his neck and the space behind his ear and his jaw and his cheek and his forehead and finally his mouth with my own. "I would never _ever_ give up on you. But let's not do that again, okay Sherlock? Okay?" I could feel myself trembling.

His only response was to swish the hair out of my eyes. "Alice?"

"Right here," I chuckled, feeling giddy with relief. "She loves you too."

"Alice," Sherlock said gently, putting his hand on her head and nudging it. "Wake up."

She opened her eyes, used her arms to lift her upper half, and blinked about sleepily. Her eyes eventually found Sherlock's face and she grinned like a mad person.

"Daddy!"


	9. Ch 9: Epilogue

**HI.**

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><p>Epilogue<p>

_A falling star fell from your heart and landed in my eye_

-Florence and the Machine

My life, it seems, can be divided into three parts.

Modern historical timelines are divided into two parts "BCE" or "Before Common Era" and "CE" or "Common Era." My timeline, similarly, used to be divided into "BJ" or "Before John" and "AJ" or "After John."

Now, however, I have an "After Alice" which could be called a subdivision of the "After John" segment. Nevertheless, my life once again was altered, shifted, changed.

At first it was difficult, integrating the importance of yet another being into my mind, another breath to monitor, another heartbeat not to lose. She'd have to stay at school late. We'd run out of edible food for her. Time with Alice was time away from work. It felt like we were never there enough when she needed us.

At least Alice was never in much danger. John mentioned her on his blog, but only said that her father took her in: in combination with that she has kept her last name would give her a little distance from our enemies. She and Mrs. Hudson had taken an instant liking to each other. The former would go straight to the latter's rooms when John or I couldn't stay home with her and we would come home to find the pair knitting (aka Alice playing with lots of colored yarn) or baking cookies (aka Alice getting covered in flour) or creating sock monkeys (Alice could actually do that quite nicely).

John and I picked out a local school for her. We asked her about her old school and friends, but she just shook her head vigorously at us. She didn't want to go back. Ever. She seemed to reject almost everything from her old life with the exception of Clémence, who'd visit her on occasion.

At her new school, Alice did well, her teachers remarking that she was a bright child and played nicely when invited to do so. The other children had a mixed reaction to her, unsurprisingly: some liked her and would take pains to include her in games while others avoided her like the plague. They also commented that Alice didn't speak very much, which worried them.

Alice didn't speak much at home either. Her body seemed like her more natural language than actual words. Her eyes and face and hands were more expressive than her tongue. Clémence assured us that Alice was like that before, not talking much unless excited or distinctly happy: in fact, she talked to John and I much more than she had to anyone else during her short existence. Sometimes though, John and I would see her curl up and stare off, as if thinking. As if weighed down by her past. Then one of us would drop what we were doing, scoop her up, and let her stay attached to us like when we'd first met-let her listen to the daily rise and fall of us talking, walking, eating, sleeping, whatever-until she was out of her mood.

On cases, we'd leave Alice at home with Mrs. Hudson. It wasn't safe for her there. When we told her we would be out working, she'd nod and smile and try to wait up for us all night in her nightie.

Life with a child was also very rewarding. I became more accustomed to noticing when it was time to pick her up from school, make sure the flat was stocked with food, take breaks from work to check on her. John seemed instinctually better at it. I memorized all Alice's favorite foods (mostly the same as John's including an insane liking of jam). She liked all colors and mashing them all together. She liked treating John like a teddy bear and me like a ladder. The only thing she seemed to fear was our death and going back to her previous Southampton residence (she thought we would leave her there).

She was the complete opposite of cautious, always exploring, adventuring, and discovering aspects of the flat, or the park, or cab, or her school. Her preferred sleeping place was with John and I instead of the bedroom we'd made for her. We'd wake up together with Alice between us, or one of us would be wrapped around the other who'd then be wrapped around her.

She was also quite the artistic little soul.

Painting or drawing was one of her favorite activities. Undisturbed, she'd be at it for hours. I would be dissecting a hand for the betterment of science and she would sit across from me with a sketchpad and pencil, tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth, and eyes following every movement, every twitch. John had walked in on us in this position on more than one occasion (and amended the promise between Alice and I that she could be my science assistant to be that she could be my science assistant as long as she didn't handle dangerous chemicals).

I'd also caught her experimentally plucking at my violin, trying with her tiny fingers to create the same sounds I did. When John walked in that time, he saw Alice balancing the heavy instrument on her shoulder with her chin and sliding the bow clumsily down the strings. A single clear A note sounded. "Excellent, _mon amie_," I'd said. She'd beamed at both of us. I give her violin lessons now, every weekend at the very least. Perhaps music will become another voice.

So now the flat was strewn not only with case notes, union jack pillows, teacups, test tubes, books, and bodies of experiments, but also sheets of music, sketches, paints, school schedules, "pretty" leaves, wilting flowers, and clothes deemed unimportant. With a child in the home, I was bored less and less. There was always something to teach her.

Days, weeks, months passed quietly, easily, naturally. Life just seemed to flow on and on.

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><p><strong>Credits:<strong>

**The Florence and Machine quotes at the beginning of the chapters are all from the song "Heavy in Your Arms." The song quote at the beginning of the epilogue is from "Cosmic Love." I love Florence & the Machine and there are some Sherlock excellent vids on Youtube with these songs if you'd like to check it out! Just search the song titles and "sherlock."**

**This story was loosely based on the canon Sherlock Holmes story, "The Adventure of the Norwood Builder," by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

**I also just wanted to say one last thank you to all for all the support! ** **mintmelodygirl, XxSixy-NinjaxX (*fistbump*), Love Magic, VolunteerElf, Mrs. VanchaMarch (your reviews are much appreciated & full of love! Thank you!), Blood Tainted Sakura Blossom, Starlite1, Sepei (you are a wonderful, phantasmic, brilliant human being. THANK YOU.), Scribblez, waterbaby84, itsravensfault (*high-five on making Sherlock & John have scarily intelligent children*), Allyieh, NicolieTheFace (OH MY GOSH YOUR REVIEWS: LOL FOREVER. TOTALLY INCREDIBLE. Also, there's a sequel, don't worry. I wouldn't give up Alice that easily.), Colors Beyond the Spectrum, ChryedandSherlocklover, SChavva24, WorldOnlylKnow, ****SimpGirl87, annabelleaurelius, and surprisedbrownie. *HUG YOU ALL***


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